Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  Von Drexler spun and marched out of the module. “A genuine licensed asshole,” the civilian murmured under his breath. The Army major agreed with him but said nothing.

  Von Drexler ignored Pontowski and Frank Hester when Colonel Robert Trimler escorted them into the ornate and luxurious conference room where Zou Rong held his combined staff meetings. “Nice way to fight a war,” Hester quipped. Unfortunately, Von Drexler overheard the remark and glowered at them.

  “He likes to run the show,” Trimler told the two fliers.

  “Me and Von Drexler go back a long time,” Pontowski said. As the junior ranking officers in the room, the three sat at the rear wall, well back from the table. Most of the meeting was concerned with the building of a new MAAG compound, complete with a command post.

  “Von Drexler wants his own headquarters,” Trimler explained. “We’re sinking a helluva lot of resources into the project.”

  “Recent intelligence,” Von Drexler said near the end of the meeting, “indicates Kang will next attack the town of Majiang. By using Majiang as a forward base of operations, the PLA will be in a position to thrust into the northern half of Guangxi Province.”

  Zou stared at Von Drexler. “A reliable source reports Kang wants to retake Pingnan,” he said.

  Von Drexler looked at his notes, breaking eye contact with Zou. The “reliable source” Zou mentioned was rumored to be Jin Chu. “President Zou,” he finally said, “your source is, of course, correct. But it is a matter of timing. Majiang is Kang’s immediate target, to be followed with a thrust at Guilin.” A tick of Von Drexler’s eyelid betrayed his nervousness. Pontowski listened as the discussion went around the table. Opinion was split. The American staff officers agreed with Von Drexler and the Chinese staff officers with Zou. The meeting ended in a very polite stalemate.

  Trimler escorted Pontowski and Hester out of the conference room to his own, very Spartan, offices. Inside the privacy of the office, Pontowski asked, “What happens now?”

  The Army colonel sank into his chair. “Nothing. It’s difficult to understand the Chinese mind and to tell the truth, I haven’t got a clue. One of their main operating principles is to do nothing when in doubt.”

  “They better do something,” Hester said, “even if it’s wrong.” Pontowski allowed a slight grin. Hester had just voiced a classic fighter pilot attitude.

  “Here’s my problem,” Trimler said. “I’m trying to create the NCG—the New China Guard—out of chaos. Hell, it’s a kindness to call what I’m dealing with chaos. Right now, the NCG has only one unit, the First Regiment at Pingnan, that knows what the pointy end of a rifle is for. And it’s a regiment in name only—really a battalion. But it’s a topnotch outfit. All that’s opposing Kang at Majiang is a half-formed, half-trained home militia of farmers and townsmen with light weapons.”

  “You’ve got us,” Pontowski reminded him.

  Trimler nodded, thinking. “Our best intelligence indicates Kang will attack Majiang—soon. Maybe as early as tomorrow morning. It will be a walk-through for the PLA unless—” he paused, thinking, “unless we can surprise the hell out of ‘em. How soon can you start flying sorties?”

  Pontowski looked to Hester for an answer. “How soon you want?” Hester asked.

  The three pilots followed Pontowski across the ramp in the early morning dark. They were all wearing flight gear and carrying their helmets. The unusual weight and bulk of survival vests hindered them as they climbed the narrow ladder into the J-STARS module. It was their last stop before stepping to the waiting aircraft.

  Pontowski had insisted on leading the AVG’s first mission of four Warthogs and was watching the three pilots as the tension slowly crescendoed. He wasn’t worried about Maggot, because he had flown in the Persian Gulf. But he had two virgins in his flight who had never flown in combat. For now, the two pilots were unknown quantities. Combat, and only combat, was the ultimate testing ground. Whatever happened today, Pontowski knew they would never be the same again.

  Inside the module, they all clustered around the civilian technician sitting at a monitor. He pointed out the heavy concentration of targets around the town of Majiang. “Colonel, this is real-time,” the technician explained. “It’s what’s going on right now.”

  “Cosmic,” Pontowski said, “a thing of beauty.” Maggot Stuart and Skeeter Ashton agreed with him.

  “But Majiang is a hundred fifty nautical miles from here,” Tango Leonard said. “That’s thirty minutes’ flying time. It can change.”

  “It’s close enough,” Maggot replied. “We can find the fuckheads and shove a few Mavericks up their assholes.” Pontowski and Hester had selected Maggot to be the deputy lead for this first mission because of his combat experience. Tango Leonard was his wingman.

  Skeeter ignored Maggot and pulled inside herself. It was a mark of their confidence that she had been chosen to fly on Pontowski’s wing. But her stomach churned.

  The technician concentrated on the display in front of him. “We’ve got movement, Colonel. I’d say the attack has started and is spearheaded by tanks.”

  “Let’s do it,” Pontowski said. He led them out of the module and to the waiting Warthogs. He could feel the adrenaline start to flow as he walked across the ramp and neared the ominous dark shadow of his jet. Colors and sounds were sharper and he could taste his breakfast. He popped a stick of chewing gum in his mouth and felt it crunch between his teeth. He glanced at his three pilots, wondering what they were feeling.

  Frank Hester was standing beside the boarding ladder with the crew chief. “Give ‘em hell, Boss,” he said. “Wish I was going with you.”

  Pontowski scrambled up the ladder and settled into the cockpit. Automatically, his hands ran through their assigned tasks, strapping in and completing the before engine start checklist. In front of him, the first shafts of morning light etched the eastern horizon as streaks of red painted the few clouds scudding across the sky.

  He looked down the line at the three waiting Hogs. A short and wiry pilot, it looked like Snake Bartlett, was in front of Skeeter’s jet, giving her a thumbs-up sign. Further down, Sara Waters was standing with the crew chief in front of Tango Leonard’s aircraft. Her arms were crossed, folded tightly across her chest. He couldn’t see the expression on her face. A pilot was standing in front of Maggot’s Warthog, his arm raised in a clenched fist.

  Pontowski caught Skeeter’s attention and spun his forefinger, giving the start engine sign. She relayed the signal as the building whine of his auxiliary power unit, the APU, split the early morning calm, supplying bleed air to start the engine. He moved the left throttle into idle detent and checked the ITT, interstage turbine temperature, gauge. “Come on, baby,” he urged. He fought the impulse to give the throttle a nudge. It had to stay in idle detent or he would loose all bleed air from the APU. He sensed the engine come to life before the RPM gauge confirmed the start. For the first time in years, he was fully alive, doing exactly what he wanted.

  The lower branch of the sun had cleared the horizon as the four Warthogs arced to the north of Majiang, heading east. Pontowski planned to attack with the sun at his back. “Go tactical,” he ordered. Maggot and Tango peeled off to the right, taking spacing for the attack. Without thinking, he double-checked his armament panel. He touched the master arm switch, insuring it was in the up position. It was a conscious action to guard against switchology errors. A last glance at his HUD and armament control panels. He was going to drop a pair of five-hundred-pound Mark-82 AIRs on his first pass.

  Ahead of him, he could see the IP, or initial point, the last checkpoint that pointed the way into the target. “Skeeter,” he transmitted on the Have Quick secure radio, “as briefed. Shooter-cover.” He would go in first and drop his bombs while Skeeter crossed behind him, ready to use her bombs or cannon on anyone foolish enough to shoot at him as he pulled off target. He firewalled the throttles as he overflew the IP at three hundred feet. The indicated airspeed needle hovered at 340 knots. I
t was all he was going to get. “Bossman’s IP,” he transmitted. He was forty-five seconds out.

  “Roger that,” came Maggot’s laconic answer.

  Pontowski’s radar homing and warning receiver, or RHAW gear, was quiet. The lack of radar activity by the enemy indicated they had not been detected. “A beautiful thing,” Pontowski muttered. Surprise was still on their side. He concentrated on the HUD, not looking inside the cockpit.

  Skeeter’s distinct voice came over the radio. “I’ve lost a generator and can’t get any weapons status lights.” The generator failure had caused other problems, but the Warthog was useless if the weapons system wouldn’t come up. She held away from the fight as she tried to reset the generator. The flight manual said to try only three times but Skeeter kept at it.

  Not good! Pontowski raged to himself. He could see a line of tanks and trucks strung out on the road ahead of him. A perfect target and no one was shooting at him. Yet. “Hold north of the IP for a rejoin.” Pontowski ordered. He was fifteen seconds out.

  Without his wingman, Pontowski felt naked. But with no reaction from the ground, he committed to the attack and pulled the Warthog’s nose up into a pop maneuver. He rolled the Warthog 135 degrees as he apexed at twelve hundred feet and pulled the nose to the ground in a ten-degree dive. The sight picture was perfect. He couldn’t believe his luck. The PBIL, the projected bomb impact line that extended from the bomb pipper/reticle, was lying over the column of tanks advancing down the road. His left hand flashed off the throttles and rotated the release mode to bombs-ripple. He was going to walk all twelve of his Mark-82s down the line of tanks on one pass.

  “IP now,” Maggot transmitted. He and Leonard were one minute behind him.

  The pipper dot in Pontowski’s HUD tracked over the lead tank. He mashed the pickle button and felt the Warthog shudder as it shed its six-thousand-pound bomb load. The F-15E he used to fly would have leaped into the air but Warthogs never leaped anywhere. He pulled off to the north to circle back to the IP and pick up Skeeter.

  “Hey, Boss,” Maggot transmitted, “you didn’t leave fuckin’ A much for us.”

  “I’m taking ground fire,” Leonard shouted over the radio. His voice was a high-pitch staccato.

  “That’s your target,” Maggot replied. “You lead, I’ll cover.”

  Pontowski could see the two Warthogs maneuver to the south for the attack. Leonard dove while Maggot arced in behind him. Bursts of flame and smoke erupted from the ground as the two Warthog pilots did their thing.

  “Someone down here,” Maggot radioed, “is having a very bad day. And it ain’t us.”

  “Skeeter,” Pontowski transmitted, “say position.”

  “IP,” she answered. “Twelve thou.”

  “What’cha doing up there?”

  “I’m trying to get this damn generator on line,” Skeeter replied. Pontowski grunted an answer. She was still trying. “Also, I’m in radio contact with Phoenix,” she added. “Negative threat.” Phoenix was the call sign for the AWACS orbiting over the South China Sea 150 miles to the south. By climbing to a higher altitude, she was able to establish contact over the Have Quick radio. The Have Quick used rapid frequency hopping to defeat enemy jamming and provide secure communications. But it was limited to line-of-sight range.

  Better and better, Pontowski thought. She’s using her head. The AWACS would tell them if an airborne threat was coming their way. “Are you in contact with Romeo?” he asked. Romeo was the call sign for the J-STARS aircraft orbiting in the vicinity of the AWACS. By talking to Romeo, they could learn of other targets on the ground.

  “Negative,” Skeeter replied. “The AWACS is also trying but coming up dry. Hold on. I’ve got the generator back on line.”

  Maggot broke into the radio chatter. “Bossman, it looks like the Fuckheads are doing a ‘Highway of Death’ number down here.” During the last day of the Persian Gulf War, Maggot had flown repeated missions over the trapped Iraqis who were trying to escape out of Kuwait on the main highway. That had been a turkey shoot. Here, in the same way, the Warthogs had stalled the PLA advance and bunched them up on the road.

  Pontowski called for a fuel check. All but Skeeter reported “tanks dry.” She was still feeding on her wing tanks, but they all had lots of fuel. He made his decision. “We work ‘em over. Skeeter, you lead, we cover. Fly straight and level at altitude and pickle over the target area. Everyone, guns only, take your Mavericks home.” The antitank Maverick rockets they carried were too valuable to waste when they could use their cannons.

  Skeeter led the pass and jettisoned her bombs into the area of heaviest smoke and fires. “Generator looks good now,” she radioed.

  A gremlin in the system, Pontowski thought. “Roger that. Follow me in.” He turned inbound and followed Maggot and Leonard as they started their first strafing runs. Skeeter dropped like a bird of prey from her perch high above and was arcing in behind him as he lined up on a tank slogging across a rice paddy. He squeezed and released the trigger. The Warthog gave off a satisfying growl as he sent a short burst of thirty-millimeter depleted uranium and high-explosive rounds into the tank.

  “You’re taking ground fire,” Skeeter transmitted as he pulled off to the west to reposition for another run. Maggot and Leonard were working to the east. He followed her as she strafed a low levy. He didn’t see what she was shooting at but there was no answering fire as she pulled off.

  The four Warthogs sequenced in for two more runs before Pontowski called them off for a rejoin. The jets fell into a box formation as Pontowski called for an ops check.

  Damn! he thought, I feel good.

  The low building the wing used as its operations center at Nanning’s airport was a madhouse. Every pilot wanted to see the tapes taken from the airborne video recorder in each A-10, which documented everything the pilot saw Through the HUD and heard over his headset. The makeshift briefing room was packed with bodies waiting impatiently for Leonard to load the tape from the first aircraft into the VCR. The room hushed as the first images flashed on the TV screen. Then the audience warmed to the subject.

  The comments ranged from the totally obscene to a more mild “Fuck me in the heart!” when Pontowski’s tape was played. The camera had recorded a perfect bomb run. “The Bossman is one dangerous dude,” one Warthog driver announced, summing up the feelings in the room. But it was the tape of Maggot’s strafing runs that silenced the crowd. It was a masterful show of airmanship and the employment of the GAU-8 cannon that left the pilots breathless. A lone, whispered, “Shit oh dear” said it all.

  Frank Hester appeared at the door and motioned for Pontowski to join him outside. “We’ve got a problem with Skeeter,” he said. “I was on the phone talking to Maintenance.” Pontowski listened as Hester related how Maintenance could not duplicate her generator problems. “They can’t find any problem with the generators and it didn’t show up on the TEMS,” Hester explained. The TEMS, or turbine engine monitoring system, recorded the state and condition of the engine on a computer tape whenever a malfunction occurred. It was an invaluable record that pinpointed mechanical problems. “Maintenance thinks she may be the problem,” Hester added.

  Pontowski took a deep breath. “Let’s look at her videotape. I never saw what she was going after on her strafing runs.”

  The two men walked into the room and watched and listened. Her tape was running when she tried to reset the A-10’s generator and restore electrical power. Her loud complaint that the generators were “a piece of shit!” drew approving remarks from the pilots. The level bomb run when she jettisoned her bombs drew a few derisive remarks that any pilot could have expected.

  But the replay of her first strafing pass earned her a “Hey babes, what the hell you shooting at?”

  Maggot stopped the tape, backed it up, and hit the play button. He froze a frame. A little w was in the lower lefthand corner of the screen, signifying the cannon was firing, and the pipper dot was centered over a man pointing a shoulder
-held surface-to-air missile directly at her. She had shot the man with a short cannon burst and every one of the rounds was on target. “You blind, asshole?” Maggot asked, letting the tape play out.

  Pontowski looked at Hester. He got a shrug in return. Skeeter Ashton might have simply had some bad luck with the A-10’s electrical system. Or she might not. But she could certainly shoot.

  The aftershocks from the mission arrived seventy-two hours later. Ray Byers and his Junkyard Dogs appeared outside Pontowski’s office with a young Chinese man. He was dressed in dirty civilian clothes and his frightened eyes kept darting to Larry Tanaka, the Japanese-American member of the Dogs. “The Bossman needs to hear this guy,” Byers told Waters. She hurried to find him and within moments, Pontowski, Hester, and Tango Leonard were in the office.

  Byers motioned to Tanaka, who sang a few words in the local dialect and scowled. “My name … Wang Peifu,” the young man said in broken English. “I drive tank at Majiang. Dragons come out of sun. Bombs bad but Silent Gun kill many men, many tanks. Silent Gun very bad. Very bad. It kills before we hear.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Pontowski asked. Slowly they made sense of the man’s fractured English. He had been driving a tank at Majiang and had been told there would-be no resistance. Then four dragons—Pontowski’s Warthogs—had flown out of the sun and dropped their bombs. Much damage had been done, but the tanks were ordered to continue the attack. The dragons came back and Wang Peifu saw each one as it rolled in to attack. Smoke belched from their noses and thirty-millimeter slugs ripped into the tanks before he heard gunfire. Wang didn’t understand that the velocity of the shells was faster than the speed of sound. But when the survivors of the attack credited the dragons with having a Silent Gun, Wang deserted. He didn’t want to face the Silent Gun again.

  “Where in hell did you find this guy?” Leonard asked Byers.